


He Shouldn't

by slasher48



Category: Social Network (2010)
Genre: Harvard Era, M/M, Masturbation, Mildly Dubious Consent, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-13
Updated: 2012-07-13
Packaged: 2017-11-09 21:23:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/458598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slasher48/pseuds/slasher48
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mark knows he shouldn’t — especially with Eduardo so near — but he does it anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Shouldn't

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Fiction. Fan fiction. Based upon what was created by: fans of the Facebook story who turned it into a book, and the fans of that book who turned it into a movie, and the fans of that movie who turned it into one sexy man pining after an equally sexy man (or vice versa).
> 
> AN: FOR THE TSN-A-THON. IN LUST WE TRUST.

He shouldn’t.

There is a list of reasons a mile long why he shouldn’t. Christy, for one, and her existence which makes every single thing he thinks about impossible. The other ones are less important, lesser hindrances:  _best friends_ , it’s  _Eduardo_ , he’s  _not even gay_. Things like that don’t matter when nobody even knows about this, anyway.

But still, he shouldn’t. He may not care for society’s standards of propriety, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t know them. And those standards say he shouldn’t.

He shouldn't shove himself into the bathroom when Eduardo falls asleep on his bed, mouth slack and wet and breathing, eyelashes dark on his bronzed and perfect cheekbones, shirt rucked up from where it caught on the bunching of Mark’s sheets. He shouldn’t wriggle his hips and push at his waistband until he’s naked all the way from his navel to the place where his sweats hold his legs together a little.

And he definitely shouldn’t wrap his hand around his cock the way he always does – one finger at a time, slick from a quick swipe or two of his tongue, tight and perfect in a way that nobody else has ever practiced on him enough to get. (Nobody has stayed long enough, is the truth, but he likes to think of it more as he’s too adept for anybody to get to his level of skill. Kind of like how all his friends back in Dobbs Ferry never could  _touch_  his score on  _Sonic_.)

He shouldn’t grab his lip between his teeth to (mostly) efficiently cut off the noises he can’t help but make when his consciousness devolves into useless fantasy. He shouldn't close his eyes and wonder  _how_  tired he could make Eduardo – how much more lax his mouth could get and how his skin would gleam with sweat and his hair, only mussed a little with sleep, would be a disaster after Mark’s hands gripped every gelled inch of it. He shouldn’t grab himself tighter and run his fingertips over his balls at the thoughts and he definitely shouldn’t almost come.

He shouldn’t think of Eduardo on his knees, ruining his impeccably cut and stupidly expensive pants because he needs the mouth that’s grumbling out there on his bed on  _Mark_ , on his dick, around the full girth of it (which is impossible, he knows, but this is fantasy, it needn’t merge with truth) and slurping and sucking all of him until he gags and chokes and coughs on Mark’s come.

He shouldn’t twist his wrist and lick his palm a few more times, sniffing in disgust at the bitter pre-come on his skin, and he shouldn't curl his toes and lift his hips into his own hold and he shouldn’t cry out, far too desperate not to be embarrassing if someone heard, at his dirtiest thought: 

Eduardo’s cock, jabbing at a spot fingers can’t do it for Mark with, even as he has tried so many times and managed, sort of.

He shouldn’t clench his thighs and the rest of his body and imagine the fullness, the glorious burn of it, and come hard enough to bang his head on the nearest wall so that he sees blotches of weird color even as he pants and clutches at whatever’s closest, spurting wetly over his hand and a little on his stomach.

He shouldn’t look in the mirror as he cleans himself off and wonder if Eduardo’s brown eyes would get darker when he was turned on than they did that day Mark shoved the food he made off the desk impatiently and they had their biggest fight to date. He shouldn’t stare at his feet and chew his lip and wish, just for a minute, that Eduardo would wake up and catch him one of these days and make him talk about why he says  _Wardo_  so loudly as he comes.

He shouldn’t walk out once he’s clean and stare at Eduardo for a long, long,  _long_  time, his computer forgotten in those moments more than it ever has been (since he discovered code as a kid, and realized there was something for him out there, something that people would admire him for even if they loathed him without it). He shouldn’t think less about sex those times and more about covering Wardo up with the blanket jammed under his sprawled knees, or maybe kissing him goodnight.

He shouldn't sigh eventually and turn away, like the night had stopped after Eduardo drifted off and Mark never did any of it, none of it. He shouldn’t go back to coding and pretend not to look at the stupidly gorgeous person on his bed – and that happens so rarely, too – after every other line.

He shouldn't.

He really shouldn’t.

Mark knows that.

But he just can’t  _not_.


End file.
